


All Bad Poetry

by htebazytook



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Quest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." – Oscar Wilde</p>
    </blockquote>





	All Bad Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> "All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." – Oscar Wilde

**Title:** All Bad Poetry  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Frodo/Sam  
 **Time Frame:** Pre-Quest  
 **Author's Notes:** "All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." – Oscar Wilde

 

 

It's a typical night at The Ivy Bush with its bored, hard-working patrons drowning whatever passions they many once have had with ale. Sam is among them because that's just what's done, sipping from his mug and nodding at his Gaffer's every muttered opinion. He's paying the gathering at their table little mind, sits and wonders what it is that loftier folk—Elves, and that—do to unwind. It's no doubt a lot less noisy.

Odo Boffin is complaining about some insignificant property dispute with his neighbors and Sam is fair nodding off when he sees something unusual out of the corner of his eye—his master, dressed to the nines and making straight for him through the crowd.

Frodo turns heads like a lass in a bright dress—when was the last time he'd been seen at _any_ inn? Or anywhere in Hobbiton, at that? Frodo wasn't much for the company of others, and it didn't help that others tended to think of him as strange or an outsider with, well, _Bucklander_ tendencies.

Sam didn't see that, though. Sam saw Frodo's seclusion, felt him being extra quiet even just in his way of saying hello, and he was sure it was because of Bilbo's departure. Frodo had a certain demeanor at times, something much too sad and serious for most hobbits to understand, but to Sam it was intriguing, and he felt a little guilty for finding Frodo's melancholy so beautiful.

To Sam it was simply a fact that Frodo was beautiful, and he found it strange that nobody else seem to notice this, his brilliant eyes and unfairly alluring pout.

Sam clears his head enough to greet his master properly. "Good evening, sir," he says, inspiring a whole chorus of echoes around the table.

"Mind if I join you, gentlemen?" Frodo smiles quietly, mug in hand.

The Gaffer's the de facto head of the table, so he responds: "Not at all, Mr. Frodo, do sit down—go on, then!"

He does. "Thank you."

Odo nods at him. "So, Master Baggins, have you heard from old Mr. Bilbo, yet?"

"Well—"

Doderic says, "He's been gone for months now, hasn't he?"

Frodo opens his mouth—

"Aye," Odo says, "that he has."

"D'ye know where he's run off to, even?" the Gaffer asks. "He certainly never spoke to the likes of me about it."

Frodo shakes his head, and Sam can see he's struggling for diplomacy, though it's probably lost on the others. "Bilbo was never really much for talking to anyone, really. Although bragging was an entirely different matter, of course…"

"He was an odd sort, and no mistake," Odo says.

Sam wants to say something in Bilbo's defense but it's difficult to talk at all in the current setting—the Gaffer to his left and his elders all around and now his master thrown into the mix. He wouldn't normally mind holding his tongue if not for all the slightly too personal or slightly too offensive curiosities this lot are sure to bombard Frodo with.

"Say Doderic," the Gaffer says, "is it true your son's been courting Poppy from up the road?"

"Courting? They've been engaged since the festival, Gaffer, where have you been?"

Frodo chimes in: "Poppy Burrows? She's awfully young for marriage still, isn't she? She can't be much older than your Sam."

"Oh, Mr. Frodo," the Gaffer says, "an engagement's hardly a marriage. It's just that: an engagement."

"Yes, well, I daresay that's a long way off for Samwise here," Frodo says.

Doderic frowns. "Begging your pardon, Master Baggins, but gentry like yourself go about the whole thing a might different—I myself was married at Sam's age."

"Aye," Odo says, "I was even younger than the lad when I tied the knot with my Mirabella."

"Yes, well. Yes, I suppose so." Frodo smiles and busies himself with wiping the condensation off his mug.

Sam doesn't know quite what to say, reckons it's best he keep his mouth shut.

His Gaffer leans into him and says teasingly, "And there's not a one of us who hasn't noticed the eye Sam has for one Miss Cotton."

Sam blushes and feels like a child, and he hates it when that happens in front of Frodo. "Oh go on, Da' . . ."

"Aye, he's been sweet on that poor lass practically since they could walk," Odo laughs.

Sam sighs and stares at the worn table with its water marks and empty mugs and Frodo's long pale fingers folded neatly in front of him.

Frodo finishes off his drink and _ah_ 's. "The next round's on me," he insists, hopping up quickly.

And Frodo ends up buying a couple of rounds after that one, and he also ends up drinking the majority of it, and Sam is sure he's never seen his master so enthusiastic about ale, definitely hadn't known he could hold his liquor with the best of them.

Frodo doesn't contribute much to the conversation after that but he certainly contributes to the volume of it—laughing raucously at virtually every quaint little anecdote the others can think up. Sam spends the time watching him and worrying about Frodo becoming so exceptionally lonely that he'd actually sought out other hobbits for entertainment instead of his usual book.

Frodo tries to stand up twice before succeeding, leans against the table and announces, "Well, I really ought to be turning in. Thank you for the company, gentlemen," he nods, and it sounds very courteous and all, it's just that he can't seem to focus on anyone properly and ends up addressing a sconce on the wall.

They exchange looks as Frodo makes his exit and Sam wastes no time in following, sneaky steadying hand to Frodo's arm on his way through the front door.

"Let me walk you home, sir," Sam says, and Frodo gives him a look that says, _Honestly, Sam, I am highly capable of navigating my way to Bag End without somebody holding my hand. _ Or, at least that's what Sam imagines his response would be if he could ever stop blinking at him in annoyance.

"It's really no trouble, sir," Sam insists, "I'm right tired of gossiping with the likes of Odo anyway. And besides, Bag End's but a little ways fro–"

Frodo smiles and rolls his eyes. " _Find_. That is, fine. _Fine_ -a. Ha."

They scale the Hill with relative success, Frodo only stumbling into him a mere six times, not that Sam's like to complain.

And that's a problem, though, because after they arrive at Frodo's doorstep Frodo seems unwilling to move that last couple of feet and stops and smiles at him, laughs to himself so his eyes crinkle and Sam finds it hard to look away.

And that's when Frodo licks his lips and Sam is paralyzed, hasn't got a chance in the world and can only stand there with his heart hammering as Frodo tilts/nuzzles his head against Sam's shoulder until their mouths come in contact with a feeling like a thunderclap. It's Sam's duty to try to contain Frodo's messy, drunken kisses, so he takes Frodo's face between his hands, soft curls tickling his fingertips while the kiss slows and starts feeling realer and realer . . .

Frodo sways into him a bit more and laughs their lips apart, looks at Sam so close up—his eyes are dark with nighttime—giggle-snorts and tells him with a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, "Nnnnamárië!" and subsequently laughs at himself again.

Opening the gigantic door to Bag End becomes a team effort and Frodo thinks that's funny too, lumbers down the dark hallway with a _Thanks!_ and without looking back.

Sam stares open-mouthed at the green door for a long time.

*

Sam spends the next morning wary of being surprised by Frodo in the garden, mainly because he knows he'll jump ten feet in the air or make some manner of embarrassing noise or hack off a finger with his shears, something . . .

Frodo never does show up, which isn't unsurprising considering his penchant for sleeping the day away, not to mention his unusually excessive alcohol intake the night before. And by noon Sam's quite forgotten about the night before, is starting to chalk it all up to dreams or wishful thinking when—

"Sam?" And Frodo's standing by a noticeably overgrown forsythia like an apparition just as he'd feared. Sam wants for him to gloss over the whole incident as much as he wants another sweet spontaneous kiss.

Frodo tilts his head and smiles like he knows what Sam's thinking, does nothing but invite him in for tea.

*

The next evening finds Sam at The Ivy Bush once again, and really no part of him secretly wants Frodo to show up—the past day had been quite enough stress to last him the rest of the season.

So of course Frodo does eventually waltz in and sit right next to Sam like nothing's amiss.

The conversation revolves around the harvest and Frodo doesn't do much talking, just laughs when he's supposed to and nods when he's supposed to and makes a concerted effort to offer Sam another drink at every available opportunity. And unfortunately for Sam he's so bored with talk of weather and crops and petty personal politics that he downs whatever's put in front of him. Frodo's proximity and attention and kissing skills have nothing to do with it.

Frodo leans scary-close, warm breath asking, "Escort me home, would you?" like he's some haughty Brandybuck heiress being courted. Which he kind of is.

Sam has no problem with this. "Of course, Mr. Frodo. That's what I'm here for, isn't it?"

They stand. Frodo says, "Mm, I do hope so," quiet-like, and they all but run up the Hill, Frodo stroking Sam's wrist slyly and accidentally stumbling even more than usual. Along the way they fall against a fence and Frodo presses his whole body to Sam's before trotting away.

Somewhere along the way all pretense had evaporated, and indeed Frodo is on him the second they round the last corner, clever fingers in Sam's hair and clever tongue in Sam's mouth, startling and Frodo-y.

Sam is drunk this time, and Frodo like this makes him more so, which eventually ends with them tripping and Sam shockingly on top of Frodo on Bag End's dirt pathway. Frodo laughs at their clumsiness and Sam can't quite believe the array before him, catches Frodo's chin and brings him in for a firm, ale-flavored kiss that Frodo squirms under. Arms twine around Sam's neck and Sam just can't kiss deep enough, dust in their hair and ruining Frodo's fine clothes and Frodo's _so_ alive and _so_ much more intoxicating than anything else, ever, and—

A dog barks in the distance and they startle apart, Sam's lust spiked with fear for a minute until he catches sight of Frodo's glistening red mouth again, but when Sam leans in—

"Wait," Frodo says, scrambling to his feet like a spooked animal. More calmly: "Wait. Sam. Do . . ." He pulls him unsteadily to his feet and fiddles with the collar of Sam's shirt without looking at him. "Come inside, won't you?"

A wall goes up and Sam can't, not when they're like this, not with Frodo asking like this only. But it's heartbreakingly hard to resist him—his loneliness, his kiss, the dust in his hair.

"I," Sam begins. "I—the. The. Gaffer?"

Frodo frowns. "Huh . . . ?"

"Goodnight, sir!" Sam blurts, kisses him quick like it's normal and regrets it instantly, especially when Frodo looks at him like he's truly mad. "The Gaffer," Sam explains again.

Yes, well, Frodo's _certainly_ convinced of his insanity, now. Sam leaves posthaste.

*

The next night he's determined to redeem himself, but after too much thinking coupled with too much drink at the inn at that confounded, crowded little table and being looked at by Frodo the whole time he's more nervous than ever.

They walk out together without really talking about it, walk up the Hill without talking hardly at all.

Frodo stops at the doorstep where Sam had first become addicted, looks at him steadily like he had been ever since that night and waits. Takes Sam's hand and waits. Says his name and gets close and waits.

Sam is nearly shaking with restraint, smells that alcohol on Frodo's breath and can see it in the glassiness of his eyes. "Goodnight, sir," Sam says, backing away from Bag End and blinking away Frodo's expression.

*

Frodo finds him in a garden before Sam's had a chance to dread it.

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo. You're certainly up earl—"

He doesn't say it like a question: "Why won't you ever kiss _me_ , Sam."

Because I _know_ you only want this because you're lonely and I never want to find out for sure. "It's improper," Sam says matter-of-factly. "It's already improper, mind you—"

"That isn't why." Frodo stares bluely at him, and Sam can't read his expression at all, definitely can't respond.

So they exist like that for awhile on the quiet hillside with the sunrise.

"I should—"  
"You should—"

Frodo laughs. "Get back to gardening, right?"

"Well, begging your pardon, but those hollyhocks won't water themselves."

Frodo smiles, tight and unhappy and Sam retreats into the shrubbery so he can stop seeing it.

Sam's limbs put him back to work on their own accord, pruning and weeding and whatever else could conceivably need done, slowly and for hours and hours, until he's just standing motionless in the east garden, unable to think.

He remains there blankly for a considerable time before dropping the shears and walking purposefully back the way he'd come.

Bag End was dimly lit, even mid-afternoon, but Sam knew his way, let his feet lead him to the kitchen.

Frodo doesn't notice him, in part because hobbits can be nearly silent when they want to be but mainly because of Frodo's talent for absentmindedness. He's making tea with his back to the door, buttering scones or something under shadowy wood cabinets and shelves and heirlooms. Suddenly Sam feels very small in the presence of his master amid all that history and status.

Yet when Frodo finally turns around, beautifully startled, Sam forgets entirely who Frodo is and who _he_ is, hears Frodo say something meaningless before Sam closes their distance and kisses him first this time.

It goes so fast, so wet and generous and excitingly fast, with every consecutive reconnection of their mouths seeming to incorporate all the muscles of Sam's body. Balance had fixed to abandon them and they sway and stumble against countertops and lightweight chairs and weird wall decorations until their wayward travel is thwarted by a lamp that threatens to crash to the floor. Sam dives to catch it at the same time Frodo does and their heads bump, fingers intertwined in the saving of the blasted thing. Sam laughs and Frodo glances up at him.

The look Frodo gives him—well, Sam thinks that if he went around Hobbiton looking at the general population like that, he'd have quite the reputation. Sam's hot and shivery all over, inspired by a possessive want, kisses Frodo hard again.

Frodo breaks away enough to talk: "Oh goodness, oh uh, Sam—I've wanted you since you were, well, since it was probably entirely inappropriate to think of you that way."

"I reckon it's still awfully inappropriate, sir."

"Don't sir me, sir."

"Yes, sir."

Sam kicks the nearest door open and drags Frodo inside, kisses the smirk off his face and gets them horizontal on the cold, unused guest bed. Frodo wriggles around like he knows exactly how blatant and enticing he's being, uses his feet to urge Sam closer by the ankles and leaves begging bites on his lips.

It seems unlikely that there's any hope of savoring the moment, and anyway Sam is drunk off that bubbly feeling of getting what he wants, pure wonderful victory over something that _hasn't_ been predestined by the likes of his Gaffer or his station or what have you. It might be that Sam would prefer to learn from books than from hands and hard work—it might be that he thinks farther beyond the simple transactions of everyday life and wonders about people who are different and puzzles over foreign concepts and philosophies and beautiful words. And it _certainly_ is that Sam loves Frodo for knowing all of this.

But for right now, Sam is more keen on embracing practice than theory, and Frodo seems to agree if what he's grinding into Sam's thigh is any indication. Sam gets the hint, hitches them farther up the bed and rolls his hips down into Frodo's, kissing his neck to feel drawn out groans vibrate against his lips.

Instinct takes over like Sam never lets it and they settle into a delicious, tauntingly slow rhythm accompanied by the silence of the dark room and their harsh breathless breath. Frodo emits these low little cries and tangles his fingers in Sam's hair tightly, rolls his hips up to meet him. Sam lets his imagination catapult into overdrive, moans and has to bury his face in the mattress in an effort to calm himself, but the sound of Frodo's voice panting in his ear isn't helping all that much.

Frodo produces a frustrated little growl and pulls Sam's hips in tighter, thrusts up harder. He captures Frodo's wrists, slams them down over his head—got to _have_ —and gets a laugh out of him followed by an unchecked moan when he pins him hard with his hips and finds a better, harder-faster-more rhythm that gets delirious sounds from Frodo and his huge, brilliant eyes rolling back in his head.

But Sam needs more, needs to get Frodo even more wanton, makes quick work of Frodo's velvet trousers and wraps his hand around hard flesh. Frodo gasps and Sam drinks it in, kisses softly and shifts to his side for better access.

Frodo arcs into Sam's hand shamelessly, twists his head to the side so Sam sees how his eyes are scrunched and his brow creased and his mouth open on pleasure, panting, pleading. Frodo breathes something nonsensical and lovely so Sam kisses him to own that, too, to be what makes Frodo like this, moves has hand faster until Frodo goes tense and his eyes fly open crazily and he finds release with a broken cry.

Sam's trying to think of a way to clean up but he's too lost in a cloud of lust to get very far before he's being flung on his back and Frodo's unbuttoning his trousers with one hand, laving the other with spit—reaches down and encircles Sam's arousal warmly wet, leans close with his hair in his eyes to kiss him through it and Sam barely even remembers climaxing.

*

When Sam wakes up his first thought is panic over the state of the garden, namely his abandoned tools, but it doesn't take long for him to remember why he'd abandoned them in the first place, and then a lazy smile forms pretty quick. And then back to panic over the empty bed beside him.

He tries to think of what ought to be said versus what he wants to say versus whatever Frodo might say . . . and it just becomes much too complicated for someone newly waking so he throws all caution to the wind, makes his way out into the parlor.

He thinks he hears Frodo nearby in the kitchen, which is far too much reality far too quickly. He looks around him:

Clearly this has become Frodo's living room by default, with its quills and papers scattered and books lying open here and there. Sam walks over to one he's seen Frodo lugging about for some time now, cautious of creaky floorboards, and reads the dog-eared page it's opened to.

__

> . . . it shall be you!
> 
> Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!
> 
> Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you.
> 
> I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious,
> 
> Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy,
> 
> I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish,
> 
> Nor the cause of the friendship I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again.
> 
> That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be,
> 
> A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.

"It's a terrible translation on my part." Frodo says quietly from the doorframe. Sam didn't think it was possible for someone to look as terrified as he felt. "Sam?"

"Yes."

Frodo smiles, and Sam stops worrying about him.

*


End file.
